This morning I was awoken by the pitter patter of little feet dashing across the long wooden hallway. Within seconds, I heard my door creak and I knew little eyes were peeping in to spy on me. Tiptoes fell softly on the floor and then a shift in the bed’s pressure. Those same little eyes peered over my body and . . . “RAWR!”
I snatch him into my arms and pull him close tickling every spot I know to be. His giggles fill the room as I laugh along. I stop to pull him into his good morning hug. When I pull away, he sniffs the aroma suddenly engulfing us. “Mommy! I smell bacon!” I sniff the air, “Oh my goodness! Yes, I smell it, too! Why don’t you go see what else Daddy made and I’ll meet you downstairs?” “Okey dokey!” He smiles from ear-to-ear and flops off the bed. A few seconds later, he tramples on down the stairs in his ingrown pajama bottoms. I slink down the hall still not completely alert. Shuffling into the quiet room, I peer over the white cradle where my baby girl was fast asleep. I brushed her backside with my fingertips and whispered, “wakey, wakey sleepy baby” over and over until she finally stirred. I picked her up and carried her in my arms as I came downstairs. I sat my daughter in her highchair and kissed my son’s forehead on my way to the kitchen. The aroma that I smelled earlier was of my husband’s specialty: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice. My husband stood along the kitchen countertop fixing our children plates of breakfast. I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. I kissed his shoulder blade, the place in which I stand in size to him, and he turned to face me. He embraced me as completely and planted one on me. Like any four year old would, our son screeched, “Ewwww . . . gross.” My husband and I laugh in knowing that it won’t be long until he will think differently. He handed me a cup of coffee and flashed his sexy half grin at me. I blush every time even though I know it’s coming. I join my children at the table and my husband follows suit. My family and I sit and chit chat the morning away sipping coffee and nibbling on pieces of bacon, the sun beaming in from the french doors nearby and the faint sounds of birds chirping coming in from the cracked windows. I recognized how wonderful my life is and how, looking back at my life before, it was almost a life I missed out on living.
0 Comments
The neighborhood park has always been a go-to of mine. It laid the same as it always did: day after day, unchanging. A, what seemed enormous at the age of seven, marigold curly slide resides off to the left, a petite jungle gym deviates to the right, and a broken-down merry-go-round sits smack in the center. Beyond the fence, an unkempt baseball field lies abandoned. The greatest asset of the park is the swings that sit towards the back: the chains hang in all of their mangled glory and the seats sit weathered from all of the Oregon rain.
2 am. I'm awake on Mamaw's kitchen floor with her best cutting knife in hand. I take the cold blade and slide it across my soft scarred skin. When I'm done, I take a look at my handiwork. I stare down at his little black heart semicolon blood spilling all over it. A tear runs down my cheek. I feel pathetic. All I want is him. I dial the first three digits. But I can't stand to let him see me weak. I click off. But I've convinced myself I can get better all on my own.
11 pm. He took me for a drive. Said it always helps him to cool off and relax. He took me for a drive to test if it would put my anxiety at ease if I would fall asleep much like a small child. He got on the highway, put his Pontiac on cruise, and grasped my hand. We drove through the night underneath all the city lights. I stare up at the buildings towering over us until they all begin to blur. 12 pm. I'm out like a light.
6 am sharp I board the Greyhound bus to Washington. I couldn't say goodbye. I had to get out of there. I just had to and Mamaw had a vacancy. I packed my bags and told no one. Not even him. Especially not him. If I did, he would beg me to stay and say we could do this together. That I didn't have to do this all my own, but I do. I stare out the bus window, holding in tears, and watch the rain pour down and the sky turn to slate.
Don't tell me you'll be able to handle me when I'm sitting on the bathroom floor with a bottle in hand. Don't tell me you can take it when I shut you out at 3 am screaming that I hate you. Don't lie and say you can deal with it because even I can't do it myself. But even though I know you're not able to, just know that I still love you with my shitty broken heart.
She lied so peacefully in her sleep. Unbothered by the outside - undisturbed. The locket her mother once gave her rests still fully in the dip on her collarbone - pictures of our children just below her chin. Her hands tucked carefully at her sides as a slight grin sweeps across her lips.
Looking at her, one wouldn't understand all she's been through to reach this point, but I do. |
Ariel Wolfeself-proclaimed writersomewhat avid reader
creator of the sorts student Categories
All
|